


the only language of this world

by TjLockticon



Series: The Hunt Eternal [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), DSMP/Dream Manhunt Crossover, Dave | Technoblade and Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Dynamics, Found Family, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hybrids, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Sickfic, Starvation, Supernatural Elements, Technoblade hears voices, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), dream team, it's a little slowburn at the start but I promise the pace picks up, no permadeath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28459458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TjLockticon/pseuds/TjLockticon
Summary: A (mostly) SBI-centric Manhunt-styled AU, plus a healthy dose of the Dream Team.-The maelstrom of voices holds the world in its grip, its Hunters ever hungry for prey.Wilbur Soot struggles to lead a revolution against it, standing in the shadow of a father and brother who he has never properly had a chance to mourn. His soldiers are mostly children - his brother and his brother's best friend and his son - and it has never been fair, but no one else will stand against the Hunt. The burden falls to him, and he will bear it until he breaks.Meanwhile, a man in an ever-smiling mask tries to remember what he's really fighting for.(And somewhere on a distant tundra, a father and son think of home, and of the hell they will rain down if they learn the nightmare they failed to defeat has turned its gaze on the family they left behind.)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Eret & Floris | Fundy, Eret & Niki | Nihachu, Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: The Hunt Eternal [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2048087
Comments: 33
Kudos: 99





	1. second verse, same as the first

**Author's Note:**

> I'm salty about the recent Lore Streams so I'm coping with AUs
> 
> Make sure to read part 1 first! It has some important worldbuilding context for this crossover fic xD

After the maelstrom's nightmare Emissary makes his sudden appearance at the walls of L'Manberg, Wilbur doesn't sleep for two days. Tommy doesn't rejoin him up on the wall the first night - maybe because he heard the distant howl of the wind, maybe because the poor kid just passed out in the tent he shares with Tubbo and Fundy. Wilbur stands the rest of his watch alone, barely breathing, staring at the mountainous horizon that hides the heart of the maelstrom somewhere beyond it. It's miles of cliffside and deep forest and ravine-riddled valleys between L'Manberg and the city; far enough away that Wilbur _prayed_ the Hunters wouldn't find them so soon. It's only been a couple of weeks since he rallied what's left of his father's rebellion and set up camp in the deep woods, and their time has just run out. 

He spends the entire night watching the forest, waiting for Dream to return with his Hunters, but the undergrowth barely stirs. When he climbs down from the wall the next morning, Eret is awake to greet him, eyes invisible behind the sunglasses. Wilbur has wondered time and time again why Eret bothers wearing them - the cloud cover rarely lets the sun break through. He supposes it's because they're a relic of better times. Something to hold onto, as a reminder. Wilbur doesn't have anything like that, at least not anything he keeps close on hand, except for the discs, and his little brother. Everything else has been gone for years - three years and four months and six days, exactly. That's how long it's been since his father and brother failed to make it back.

(He can count it down to the _second,_ if left alone with his own thoughts for long enough.)

"Hey," Eret says with a smile, his deep voice a relief to hear after the shrill whistle of the night winds. "I heard you sent Tommy down from your watch last night. What gives?"

Wilbur hopes he doesn't flinch. It's too soon to tell Eret, tell _anyone -_ he needs time to _think,_ to figure out a plan of action now that Dream _knows._ Clearing his throat, he bites down the urge to yawn and gives a vague shrug. "Heard the wind pick up. Didn't want to risk him getting seen, in case anything came with it."

Eret nods understandingly. "Anything show up?"

Wilbur considers his reply carefully, fighting to keep his expression neutral - a feat made easier by the exhaustion filling his body. It's easy to hide the anxiety curling in his stomach underneath the veneer of darkened eyes and the fatigue keeping his voice dull. "Nothing I couldn't handle," he says flatly. "Just... keep a sharp eye out tonight, okay?"

"Will do," Eret agrees without missing a beat. He walks up to Wilbur and pats a warm hand on his shoulder, eyes just barely visible behind the lenses of his glasses. Wilbur doesn't miss the slight crease to his brow, the thinly veiled concern. "I'll pass it along to Niki, too. You should go try and get some sleep."

Wilbur snorts under his breath. "Trying to boss the leader of the revolution around, are you?"

"Special privilege of being second in command," Eret retorts casually.

A grin teases at Wilbur's lips, despite himself. "Don't let Tommy hear you say that."

"He can duel me for the title, if he likes," Eret says with a wry smile, then shoos Wilbur away with a dismissive gesture. Wilbur lingers a moment, watching him stride off to the ever-dwindling grove of trees within the walls of the camp they've been felling for firewood and lumber. In the pallid morning sunlight - and before Wilbur's stress-addled vision - the iron of his axe almost gleams like diamond. It sends a chill down Wilbur's spine, and he hastily retreats across the muddy meadow to the small tent he's claimed as his own, next to the worn-down RV that holds their most valuable equipment and perishable supplies. On the way he briefly glimpses Niki's silhouette in the tiny greenhouse in the middle of the meadow, and the cold fear in his stomach is momentarily offset by a warm flicker of pride. He doesn't know how, but she's managed to get things to _grow_ in that greenhouse - carrots and potatoes and beetroot, growing exponentially faster than they normally would thanks to the bonemeal Niki figured out how to make.

The revolution would be dead in the water if not for her. Wilbur tries not to think about that too much.

He checks on the boys in their tent, poking his head in for a brief second. All three of them are still asleep in cots shoved together on the far side of the tent. Their snores overlap; Tommy's arm flails over Tubbo's face. Fundy is curled up into a ball at the foot of the cots, face and tail barely visible. His tail twitches - maybe he's dreaming about better days, the kind he never got to experience for himself. Wilbur tries to ignore the icy shame welling up in his chest; his son deserves better. His little brother deserves better, Tubbo deserves better - Nikia and Eret deserve better. They deserve to sleep safely, unafraid.

They don't deserve the storm that's coming.

Wilbur leaves the boys sleeping and shuffles into his tent, dropping his sword and crossbow onto the chest at the foot of his cot. The fire in the makeshift furnace off to the side of the cot has long since gone out; the first few sparks from Wilbur's flint and steel don't catch, and he's about to give up on the warmth of a fire entirely when the tinder _finally_ catches. A sigh of relief snags in the back of his throat as he coaxes a sputtering flame to life, smoke trailing up through the pipe and into the chilly air outside. He can only hope there's no one around in the woods to see the thin curls of smoke rising from the camp; he still needs time to figure out how to tell the others about Dream.

It's only after he collapses on the cot that Wilbur belatedly realizes his hands are shaking.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath, clenching his hands into fists. His hands can't shake - he's the leader of L'Manberg, he's Philza's son, his hands _cannot_ shake, cannot tremble, cannot _waver._ He has to be steady, for Tommy and Tubbo and Fundy and Niki and Eret. He has to stand between them and the Hunters, no matter what, and when he does, his hands _cannot_ be shaking the way they are now. He has to be steady for all of them, no one else can _do_ this - Tommy and Tubbo and Fundy are too young, Niki isn't good with a sword or a crossbow and her voice quivers when she tries to speak louder than a whisper, and it's not fair of him to expect Eret to face the Hunters when _Wilbur_ is the one who learned from Phil how to look the devil in the eye and _not flinch._

He learned from Phil, his _father,_ what it meant to be a strong leader-

Before he realizes what he's doing, Wilbur reaches underneath his pillow and pulls out a striped boater hat. The fabric is rumpled and the colors are faded, but when he holds it tight in his trembling hands, he can almost feel his father reaching back. Can almost imagine the warmth of Phil's arms and wings enveloping him, can almost hear his soft voice coaxing him out of the grasp of a night terror. Phil never had the loudmouthed charisma of Schlatt or the terrifying monotone of Technoblade, but he had a kind smile and a bright laugh and a gentle, steady hand, a hand that taught Wilbur how to hold a sword and bandage a wound and polish a music disc. The memory of these things is all Wilbur clings to anymore; the memory lives in the music playing over the camp, in the hat he hides under his bedsheets, in the way Tommy's laugh sounds _just_ like Phil sometimes.

Wilbur hates that he has more pieces of Phil left than he does of Techno. From Phil, he has the discs, and the hat, and countless lessons learned by example of how to lead a revolution. From Techno... there's an armory, hidden somewhere in the surrounding mountains, deep in a ravine. Something Techno put together, a stronghold of last resort that Wilbur still knows how to get to. He wishes so badly that he had something else, something he could _hold -_ a piece of his blood red cloak, maybe, or one of his weapons, or _anything._ The only thing either Wilbur or Tommy have left from Techno is a single cut emerald that Tommy wears on a leather cord around his neck.

It's not even _close_ to enough.

With a shaky exhale, Wilbur curls onto his cot, throat dry and chest heavy. He clutches Phil's hat in his hands, pressing it to his nose in some vain attempt to see if it still carries the smell of Phil's wings. It doesn't, of course, but there's at least _some_ comfort to the ritual. He closes his eyes, trying to coax his brain into shutting down, but it never quite switches off; he hovers on the edge of consciousness, a figure of green and white flickering on the backs of his eyelids. He doesn't move for the rest of the day except when he smells Niki's beetroot soup cooking outside; he drags himself out sluggishly and grimaces when he realizes the sun has already set.

The days are getting worryingly short. It won't be long before the first snowfall arrives.

Wilbur makes an attempt to eat Niki's soup while the boys squabble over who gets the biggest piece of bread. Distantly he registers Tommy's victorious shout, and something that sounds like _the big man gets the biggest piece,_ but he doesn't hear much else. Mellohi fills his head as it croons through the camp, but beyond that he hears the shrill shrieking of the wind, loud and piercing enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He doesn't think much of it until he realizes everyone else has gone quiet, too, and he glances up to see them all standing frozen, looking at the wall.

As his head clears, Wilbur squints up at the sky and sees the distant crackle of lightning. A cold wind snaps through the camp, and the shrill whining of the wind increases tenfold, like dozens of wailing voices overlapping. It's not loud enough to block out the tune of the music disc, but it's loud enough to startle even _Tommy_ into momentary silence as the revolution holds a collective breath. After a moment, the howling wind moves on, taking the Hunt with it. Sighs of relief sound off from the boys, but when Wilbur meets Eret and Niki's eyes, he sees solemn dread mirrored in their expressions. 

There's a Hunt tonight. They aren't the targets, but _someone_ is, and there is no one who will help them.

Wilbur grits his teeth, a burning resolve eclipsing the cold dread. He doesn't sleep for two days, but on the third morning he rings the muster bell, and everyone makes their way into the war tent, some of them still blinking off sleep. Eret and Tommy are the most awake, fresh from their late night watch on the wall; there's an eagerness to Tommy's step, as there always is when Wilbur summons them into the war tent. Most of their meetings in this tent have been to plan supply runs into Somniterram, or scouting missions into the local woods to forage and hunt wild game. Wilbur has managed to greet his revolutionaries with a confidant smile at every single meeting so far, but this time his face is set like stone.

He hates how the eager smile drops from Tommy's face, morphing into a confused frown instead. "So, uh... what's up, Wil?" he ventures uncertainly.

Wilbur steels himself with a deep inhale, and his hands _do not tremble._

"I know you all have been working very hard to get L'Manberg up and running," he begins, "and we've accomplished so much in the time we've been here." There. Praise their efforts, reassure them of their progress. Ease into the bad news slowly. It's the way Phil always spoke to them when they were young. "We've got a garden, we've started the cabins, we've got the walls up... we've got a good base here. A strong base."

They're all staring at him, expressions ranging from pride to anticipation to confusion to worry. Wilbur feels his mouth go dry, but he runs his tongue over his lips and clears his throat, meeting each of their stares directly before he says, "But we need to be even stronger now. We need to hold fast and stand firm, more than we ever have before."

Eret is quicker to the realization than everyone else, going stiff as he recognizes the gravity in Wilbur's tone. The boys just look confused, while Niki wrings her hands in her apron, still covered in dirt and bone dust. Wilbur's pulse pounds in his ears as he leans over the table that holds their one map of Somniterram, his fingertips curling into the wood as he braces himself on his hands.

"Wilbur," Niki asks quietly, "what's going on?"

His heartbeat is a roar now, louder even than Mellohi playing outside.

"It's Dream," he murmurs. No sugarcoating. No pretense. "He knows about us now." He glances at Tommy. "You remember when we were on watch together three nights ago?"

"Yeah, but-" Tommy's words choke off as the realization clicks, and his eyes go wide as dinner plates. "Wait - _wait,_ do you mean he - he was _there??"_

Wilbur nods slowly. "I didn't want him to see you. He..." Acid green, bone white. A forever smiling face, burning in his mind's eye. "He came up to the gate, but I don't think he could come any closer. He wants the discs, but Mellohi kept him out. I needed to think about - about what our next plan of action needs to be, and-" _He hoped Dream wouldn't come back. He hoped Dream **would** come back. He hoped he'd take off the mask like he did in the old bunker, when Phil said it didn't have to be this way- _"Well. I was hoping we'd have a little more time to get the camp set up, and get more supplies, but..."

His voice finally breaks. He sucks in a ragged breath - no one else dares speak. "Well," he manages. "We've still got some supplies, at least." He turns to Niki, mustering a feeble, desperate grin. "If we hunt down more skeletons, we can keep the garden going, right?"

There's no moment of dawning comprehension on Niki's face, just a pressing of lips together and a slow nod. Her hands have stopped wringing her apron; they rest still and steady at her sides as she answers, "I think I can. I don't know how well it'll do in the cold, but I can keep it going at least until then." She gently nudges the shoulder of Tubbo, who looks like he hasn't breathed since Wilbur said Dream's name, and might pass out any second. "It'll go even better once we get the bees to help, right Tubbo?"

Tubbo's mouth opens and closes a few times before he answers, his voice skidding. "Y - yeah. Probably."

"So that's it, then?" Tommy says, his voice flat. Wilbur can't help but notice the way his expression hardens, the way his fist clenches at his side. His baby brother tries so hard to be a soldier, but no amount of armor can change the fact that he's trying to be a grown man in the body of a lanky teenager, all hotheaded spite and righteous fury, covered in scabs and bruises and no battle scars - not yet. "We're stuck here now?"

Wilbur nods. "No more supply runs to the city. We can still set up traps in the woods, we might get lucky and catch some animals if they're still around." Mellohi's range extends a decent distance into the woods, but Wilbur isn't optimistic about their chances; whatever animals lived nearby have likely been scared off since they settled in this valley. The revolution is pinned down, half a dozen tents and maybe a month's worth of food to their name. Niki's garden should help see them to winter, but there's no telling if bonemeal can still work once the weather gets cold. For the sake of his own sanity, Wilbur has to believe it'll work - so, for now, he does.

He watched one revolution fail. He can't watch it happen again.

"I bet Dream's run off," Tommy is saying with a grandiose flair to his tone. He stands between Fundy and Tubbo, towering over them, ruffling their hair. Fundy's tail wags eagerly, and Tubbo almost smiles. "I bet he went home thinking 'Ooo, I'm a big scary man in a stupid mask, and I'm too scared to fight some kids face to face'." Tommy glances up, catching Wilbur's eye, grinning with a confidence that Wilbur is _terrified_ will shatter when he actually meets Dream on the field of battle. "I mean, you scared off the big bad Emissary all by yourself, Wil, and no offense, you're not that scary. I bet he had to run off so you wouldn't see him piss his pants."

The boys laugh. A sound snags in Wilbur's throat, a raw and painful thing that might've been a laugh, might've been a scream. Niki and Eret aren't laughing, either, but they manage smiles, for the boys' sake. Wilbur just tries to remember how to breathe, tries not to notice the fact that Tommy's smile is a little too wide, a little too strained at the corners, his laugh just slightly forced. Tommy might not have _seen_ the Hunters up close yet, but he saw the way Techno _ran_ from them, and Techno never ran from anything before in their lives, never turned his back on a fight - never turned his back on _them._ Tommy has always prided himself on being strong, on never breaking down, but Wilbur cannot erase the sound of Tommy's broken sobbing from his memory. He could die a thousand times to the Hunt, lose every other piece of himself, but he knows he would _never_ forget that.

For now, the boys are laughing, and the revolution stands strong. Wilbur tries to smile for them, like a leader should, and only just _barely_ makes it.

 _Dad,_ he thinks to himself, _please let me be doing this right._


	2. refrain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream returns to the place he used to call home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments feed the hungry beast, and it rewards with words.

It's a long ride back from L'Manberg. The wind howls at Dream's heels the entire way, deafening any lingering recollection of the sound of Mellohi. He can't quite shake a tingling feeling in his spine as he summons Spirit from the aether, mounting the spectral white steed with effortless fluidity. They become as one while he rides through the mountains, continuing his long and arduous patrol of the lands outside the lonely city. The sky above is pitch-dark, without stars; in the valley below, lamplight beckons, flickering yellow and red.

As he rides, a boy's voice - a man's voice, now? - echoes in Dream's head, stubbornly persistent despite the maelstrom's wailing.

_"You can't control us."_

Someone else said that to him once, didn't they? A man, Dream thinks. A man with wings-

_**Ḓ̵̱̻̼̯̽̓̈́͛̈͌̕Ę̶̻̿͋̎͛̕͘À̷̬̐̃͠Ḍ̸̤͂̂̾͘ ̶̣̐̆A̷̼̱͔͗̔͆͑́͘Ǹ̵̡͎̪͓͓̲̍͌̈́͊̕Ḑ̷͍̤̬̗͌̔̑͠͠ ̷̯͗Ǧ̷͈̻͓͐̊̌O̷̗̒͑Ṅ̷̡̦̦̱̪E̵̼̗̟͑̋** _

_**L̸̛̗̄͘͝Ê̶̼̻̱͐̾ͅT̷̬̟̞̰͖̎̇̇ͅ ̵̺̬̈́̎̈Ṯ̵̢̬̪̩̏̌̈̅́̈́͌Ḫ̴̨͎̮̻̐̎͐͜E̷̡͊̔̇̑̉͘R̵̨͖̟͚̺̽̔Ę̷̻̠̝̯̙̣̋̉̇̅ ̷͚͕̪͎̠̊̈́͠B̸̜̦̭̜̻̆̓̌̿̽̉Ḛ̷̚ ̷̝̬̲͚̤̼̍̓͒̍̅͌N̴͕͚͕̏͗͘O̴̙̦̼̰͐ ̴͕̦́S̷̡̝̗̱̟̗̥͆̋̇͝O̷̝̞̞̊̈͜Ṇ̷̢̨̳̰͈̰̔͊̎͛̈͝G̶͎͚͚͇͒̎͂͗̈** _

Dream winces, grip tightening on Spirit's reins, axe suddenly feeling heavy on his back. His body is a treacherous thing, having the audacity to flinch at the sound of the maelstrom roaring in his skull. It envelops him, imbues him with its might and will, its ferocity, its _purpose._ He needs nothing else beyond it; the screaming voices block out all sound, and he rides on safely sheltered in its embrace. His hands don't shake - they never do - but he grips the reins just a little tighter, nudges Spirit's sides to make him gallop a little faster. The ride home is still long - sunrise breaks with a tepid, aching white light, climbing all the way through the sky and beginning to descend once again - before he begins to circle back to the valley.

By the time he descends to the road winding through the large ravine leading to Somniterram, Dream cannot quite recall what Wilbur Soot said to him up on that wall. He remembers the young man's anger, the brazen refusal to submit and obey the maelstrom's call. He grits his teeth, frustrated that he could not put an end to Wilbur's little revolution on his own. 'L'Manberg' is a stubborn little blight on the land, a festering scar whose infection will not break until the maelstrom deems it an acceptable target for a Hunt. Ideally, Dream would take his Hunters there immediately and tear those foul walls down, but the maelstrom is patient.

It always is.

Dream dismisses Spirit as he enters Somniterram's gates. The autumn sunset is brief - a splash of bloody red on the horizon - and Dream is once more swathed in darkness, walking the streets he once called home. As he walks, he sees no people, though he hears shuffling in buildings and distant alleys. A bell rings, signaling curfew; he pays it little mind. The rules of this city have never applied to him. His gaze wanders, veiled behind his mask, and here and there he sees fragments of a history he's tried so hard to forget. Buildings he helped lay the foundations for, decades ago, gardens he once helped plant, now overrun with weeds. The livestock in their paddocks squirm and bleat fearfully when he passes them by, but few other sounds disturb the maelstrom.

His stride slows as he passes through the city's central plaza. While the rest of the city slowly succumbs to a creeping, quiet decay, the plaza is pristine; the citizens maintain it dutifully, in full understanding of what will happen if they don't. Stray animals avoid the plaza with raised hackles and tucked tails; birds never fly above it. The lamps are always lit, burning a smoky red hue. The blackstone beneath Dream's feet is as clear now of debris as it always has been, as if no living thing has ever set foot in this place.

In the center of the plaza, in the very _heart_ of the city, the massive portal glows and pulses, and the maelstrom churns around it. Arcs of plasma and lightning ripple through the air, while plumes of smog swirl like a whirlwind above the weeping obsidian. Bright, flashing particles dance across Dream's vision, and he halts for a moment, mesmerized by the dance, by the screaming cacophony. They howl with a fury that shakes the very ground beneath his feet, a tremor few others but him can feel. He could stand here for _hours_ watching the maelstrom, perhaps, if nothing else were to distract him, if nothing else conspired to lure him away.

There's a tug on that slow-beating thing inside his chest. Something different from the cold, jagged teeth of the maelstrom steering him toward prey. Something he dares say is _warm,_ thought he can't quite feel it in its entirety - the maelstrom makes him numb, when he returns to the city. Tearing himself away from the plaza is a slow process, agonizing at times when the lightning hits the stone near him, screaming for him to _stay._ He forges onward, despite this, and eventually makes it out of the plaza and onto a thoroughfare, and then a road, and then a creaking wood-plank path.

A house stands before him at the end of the path, two storeys tall, built of dark red brick and spruce logs. Tinted glass obscures the interior, but the smoke curling from the chimney tells Dream it isn't empty. He lingers a moment before the threshold, cloak and boots feeling heavy, his shoulders aching from a weight he usually can't feel. The maelstrom is no less loud here than it is _everywhere,_ but he picks out noises beneath it; the dull clang of metal against floorboards, the crackle of a fireplace, a loud and barking laugh.

The maelstrom roars in his skull.

_**P̴͕̭̝͚̭̃̓̿̓̃A̷̭̟͈͇̹͂T̵̟̗̖̟̑͒̐͝R̴̡͎̓̾̂̔͘Ö̶̦͕̩̰̠́̀̐͋̉̌Ľ̵̮̹͛̎̏̏͜ ̴͎̮̟̭̒̊̐̆̾̐͠ͅḨ̴̣͇̃̈́Ü̸͍͙̠͍̥̎̐͐͜N̸͔̟̩͕̍̉T̵̺̺̗̤͗͒̃̅̕ ̵̛̳͂̀̎́̈́͒ͅP̴̥̥̓̍̀̓͊̚͝R̴̭͉̝͈̠̘̾̾̎̈́Ȇ̸̝͎̐̓̒ͅͅS̵̜̦͉͚̝̤̀͒͑̆E̷̡̡̬͍̟͈͔͒͘R̴̬̦̼̈̅͒̀V̵̨͕͙̟̭͔͌͛̀͆͐͌̿Ḙ̴̲͖̣̎̏̓͝** _

He will. _Soon_. He is the Emissary, how can he not? But somewhere underneath the green and white cloak and the diamond armor and the mask, there's something in his skin still clinging to humanity, and that piece of him just wants to rest. He's been away from the city for days on a tireless patrol, ensuring no other portals have been built, no monsters have breached the valley defenses, no rebellious little encampments have sprung up in the woods-

Well. Two out of three is still not three, and the maelstrom demands perfection. L'Manberg won't be so defiant when he returns to their pathetic little wall with his four Hunters at his side, and no amount of music discs will be able to stop them, and Wilbur Soot _will_ surrender. Dream knows - he _knows -_ the moment he tells his Hunters about L'Manberg, they'll be _begging_ to armor up and set out to the camp, to tear down the walls and purge the rebels from their hideout. He knows better than anyone how vicious they are when a Hunt is called.

The hinges creak loudly as Dream pushes the door open and steps inside. Warmth rises to greet him from a roaring fireplace, and he smells pork roasting in the little kitchenette squeezed into the far corner beyond the hearth. The first floor of the house is open, stairs winding up to bedrooms and storage closets and an enchantment room; a trapdoor leads down to the basement armory. Once, the house had walls and rooms, at least until they needed a sparring pit, which takes up half the floor. A single wall sections off the potions laboratory, but nothing is fully closed off. It is open, exposed, and Dream could navigate every inch of it blind.

He's low on potions and food. They need to stock up again, before-

"Well, look who finally came crawling back!"

Dream's gaze darts to the sparring pit, finding George sprawled on the ground, goggles askew. Standing victorious above him, bandana stained with sweat, dark hair tousled, is Sapnap, diamond sword clutched in hand. They both look up as the door swings shut behind Dream.

The first thing most of Somniterram's people first see when Dream appears before them is the bloodstained axe, always present in his hand.

The first thing his Hunters see when he steps into the house is the painted smile on his mask, and they return it in kind.

Sapnap extends a hand to George, helping him up to his feet. Sticking the tip of his sword into the hard-packed dirt of the sparring pit, Sapnap jumps out and trots over to Dream, adjusting his bandana and clapping his hand on Dream's shoulder with the same easy confidence he's had since they were - since they - since _always_. The smell of smoke clings to him, a perpetual companion that Dream can no longer imagine him without. George grumbles something about cheating before he hauls himself out of the pit, massaging his shoulder and fixing his goggles so they perfectly hide his eyes.

"Where've you been, Emissary?" Sapnap asks, the title phrased with a mixture of humor and pride, like it's an inside joke Dream is only privy to a small percentage of the time, when the maelstrom's voices aren't _quite_ so deafening. "Hope you weren't having too much fun without us."

He needs to tell them. It's his obligation, it's his _purpose._ The maelstrom cannot abide traitors and insurrectionists and the maelstrom _must_ be appeased, he is its _Emissary_ and these men are his hunters and _he must tell them-_

"Dream?" George asks, his quieter voice touched with a hint of concern.

Behind his mask, Dream blinks slowly. "Where's Bad?" he asks, knowing Antfrost is in the laboratory - he can hear the brewstands bubbling. He wants all four of his Hunters here tonight, inside and away from the storm. It's getting cold outside, after all, and they always need to be well rested, prepared for the next Hunt. Securely inside, where he can _see_ them, hear their voices, not just the din of the thousand wailing phantasms swirling in his head.

"He's upstairs enchanting stuff," Sapnap answers before bumping his fist against Dream's arm. "Hey, you got back just in time! Feel like sticking around for dinner for once?"

Dream doesn't eat anymore, but he can't refuse Sapnap anything, so he simply nods. Sapnap flashes a grin and returns to the kitchen while Dream makes his way to the ratty assortment of couches and settees thrown together on the far side of the house. Boots and coats, scarves and gloves lie scattered about, momentarily discarded; scraps of paper and twine have wedged themselves into the cracks between floorboards. The pieces are few and far between, but they make the house feel a little less like a base of operations, and a little more like the home Dream hasn't belonged in since-

_**A̸̮͌̿͛̚̚L̵̢̥̜̦̟̮̀͒W̷̳̬̝͇̤̬̅̅̈̃̿Ã̴͛͊̒ͅY̴͚͛͆̌Ṣ̵̑͗** _

He lays his axe down carefully on the table. His chestplate joins it shortly after, then his bracers and leather jerkin. The blood on all of the pieces is so thoroughly worn-in there is no point in even _attempting_ to clean it, but he goes through the rote motions anyway. It keeps him busy, helps him feel he is doing something he _should_ be doing; preparing, always, for the next time. He can never stay in this house for long, except to resupply and strategize with his Hunters. They spend _days_ here, in the lull times between Hunts; Dream is lucky to glean a few hours at any given time. Never longer than a night.

As he futilely polishes his axe, he glances to his left. Antfrost's hulking feline frame sits hunched over in the laboratory, strange and bitter-smelling vapors swirling out the cracked-open window above the workbench. He acknowledges Dream with a sideways glance and a nod, his puffy tail and large, black-tufted ears flicking slightly. The rest of him sits still, barely fitting in the chair, each motion of his hands choreographed with elegant precision as he mixes potions of strength and speed. There's an organized chaos to his workspace, a place the rest of the Hunters dare not tread within; too many volatile chemicals and fragile ingredients. They learned their lesson after the first and only mistake, when George couldn't tell the color difference between a vial of glowstone dust, and a vial of sulphur.

They are Hunters, after all - _Dream's_ Hunters. Sapnap, whose ~~loyalty will get him killed~~ love affair with fire has cost them tactical advantages and public trust. George, whose ~~favorite color is blue, in this land with a stormy gray sky~~ lack of battlefield awareness has let prey slip away more than once. Bad, whose ~~gentle heart should not be driven to destruction~~ overcautious nature has thrown them off the trail when the others refuse to listen to his insights. Antfrost, whose ~~reluctance toward the Hunt is justified~~ tactical inexperience will lead to disaster someday. These are his Hunters, and all mistakes they make reflect on _him._

(And what of _his_ mistakes? How do _those_ reflect on his Hunters?)

(He wishes he had an answer.)

The maelstrom is eerily subdued as Dream cleans his armor, and George tidies the sparring pit, and Sapnap prepares dinner. Ant eventually shuffles out of his laboratory, handing a set of potions to Dream; strength, speed, and a couple precious vials of healing. Strength is sludgy, churning and glowing like lava inside the glass. Dream knows its taste well; a spicy, eye-watering burn that sets adrenaline pumping through the body. Speed is glittering and translucent, sugar-sweet on the tongue. Healing just looks like viscous blood, and its taste is that of copper.

Dream accepts them with a nod. He and Ant rarely speak directly; they haven't known each other quite so long as Dream has known the rest. Ant is a new recruit, in the grand scheme of things, and a quiet man on his best days. He betrays little of his own inner thoughts, his feelings - in a way, he's the most like Dream. They seem to both live with bated breath, awaiting the next Hunt, while George and Sapnap and Bad still cling to an outdated sense of normalcy. There are days when Dream wants to rip down this house so they'll stop _pretending._

There are days when he never wants to step outside again.

"Hey, Bad!" Sapnap shouts up the stairs. "Better get your ass down here before Ant eats your share again!"

"Language!" comes the muffled reply, but Dream hears the soft, padding footfalls anyway. He sets his polishing cloth and armor aside, watching with a gaze that seems to exist _outside_ his own body as George hands plates to Ant to bring to the table. For a frozen beat in time, the maelstrom is silent, and Dream almost feels a weight lift from his shoulders. The motions are difficult as he pulls a chair out from the table - he's rarely here long enough to sit down - and his hand hovers over the clasp of his cloak.

He's only just undone a single clasp when he hears the dishes clatter to the floor, dropping from George's hands as he freezes in place.

Dream goes still. Before his unearthly eyes, his Hunters all stop moving, and look up in unison toward the window. The silence surrounds and overwhelms, and with solemn resignation, Dream recognizes it, accepts it, and embraces it.

It only lasts a moment, before the maelstrom shatters it. There's a clap of thunder and a blazing streak of lightning across the sky, and wind buffets the house so strongly the windows shake in their frames. Dream is distantly aware of Bad descending the stairs, but his focus is elsewhere, consumed by the maelstrom as it fills the air with a scream. All its voices unify, crying out a single word - a name.

A target.

Their _prey_.

_**S̶̳̥͚͌Ķ̸̻̯̂͋͠Ḙ̷̲̻̰̯̤̘͑͗̈́̊̈̕͝P̸̢̓̊P̷͕̩͎̚Y̵͇͛̿͌̍̈̏͝!̵̹̃̋̏͘** _

Dream glances toward Bad, wondering - hoping? - if he'll hesitate, hearing the name of someone Dream thinks must have been his friend, once.

There is only an eager smile on Bad's face, his eyes burning white, teeth sharp like knives in the void that swirls beneath his hood. Identical smiles slowly expand upon the faces of all the Hunters as they look toward Dream, awaiting his signal. Dishes lie at George's feet, forgotten. Steam curls from the roast pork and vegetables on the countertop that will be long cold and inedible by the time they return. 

Dream refastens the clasp of his cloak and picks up his axe. The howl of the maelstrom settles back soundly into his skull, and his lips twist to match the expression on his mask.

"Let the Hunt begin," he intones.

And so it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Skeppy. I hope it was a quick Hunt for him, at least.


	3. susurrate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fox and a would-be king take a walk through the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while. Retail is ruining my writing mojo.

Three days after Wilbur's announcement, the standard routine of L'Manberg has barely changed. There is a palpable difference in the atmosphere of the camp, however, that Eret can't help but notice as he blinks awake around mid-day. His limbs ache from his solitary night watch on the wall; the few restless hours of sleep he managed to glean between trading off morning watch to Niki and waking up to the chill of his fire going out have done little to soothe the brittle tension in his body. 

His breath fogs up before his lips as he once again dons his worn iron chestplate, leaving the furnace in his tent unlit for the moment. The sound of Mellohi playing through the canvas of his tent helps calm his nerves, but more comforting is the fur cape he clasps around his shoulders, insulating him from the cold. The ragged hem of the cap is stained with mud, but he doesn't have the heart to try and wash it away. At least it's mud, and not something worse; the only one among their little rebellion whose clothes bear a trace of long-dried crimson is Wilbur, and it makes Eret's chest grow tight whenever he spots the darkened stains that Wilbur seems to have forgotten about. He loathes the sight of them almost as much as the dark circles that seem to have taken up permanent residence under Wilbur's eyes.

Absently, Eret rubs under his own eyes, smearing away traces of sleep as he grabs his sword and hunting pack and steps out into the harsh late-autumn sun. There's no snow on the ground yet, but the chill in the air tells him it won't be long; a couple of weeks, at most, is all the time they have left before winter hits. As if to drive the dire point in further, Eret's stomach lets out a low growl, but he suppresses the dull gnaw of hunger for the moment. With the sun at its peak, and the day as warm as it'll get, now is the best time to check the traps scattered in the nearby forest, on the outskirts of Mellohi's range. He isn't optimistic about their chances; the most he can hope for is an unlucky fox or some rabbits, though he's seen wolf tracks on his last few foraging trips, and odds are good any animals the traps have caught will be claimed by the scavengers if he dallies.

Movement catches Eret's eye as he passes through the camp. Speaking of foxes - ahead of him, Fundy trudges out of the boys' shared tent, muzzle open wide with a yawn. His bright orange fur is clumped at odd angles, but he walks with a perk to his step, his fur keeping the cold at bay. His oversized coat hangs loosely around him, ill-fitting to his frame, and Eret stifles a pang of regret. Fundy's so young his voice still hasn't dropped, though it _has_ started cracking a lot these days. He's a _child,_ still, and yet here he wears a soldier's coat, isolated from civilization with nothing but a tent to give him shelter.

(The first completed cabin is going to be for the boys. Eret and the other two adults in the revolution agreed on that as soon as construction started. The rest of them can get frostbite, for all they care. The boys _have_ to stay warm.)

Eret tries not to think about that right now. Putting on a smile, he gently shoulder-checks Fundy as the fox-boy stretches in the sunlight, tail swishing from side to side. "Hey, kid."

Fundy looks up to him and grins. It's a strange, sharp-toothed expression on his face - a face that's somewhere between human and fox. If Eret squints, he can sometimes trick himself into seeing pieces of Wilbur Soot in Fundy's features, but the physical resemblance is borderline nonexistent. Still, he squares his shoulders and holds his head high exactly the same way his father does, the movements carefully mimicked - maybe with a child's reverence for a parent, or maybe like a soldier trying to be be brave. In these moments, he looks so much like Wilbur, it scares Eret, just a little. 

(Eret still remembers the anxious panic in Wilbur's eyes when he tore Fundy into the world with one of their last spawn anchors. He can still smell the brimstone, the burnt hair and skin, the blood. He hopes he never has to see that kind of fear in Fundy's eyes.)

"Morning," Fundy yawns. He glances at Eret's sword and pack, ears flicking up eagerly. "You going hunting?"

Eret nods. "Yep." He'd have to be blind to miss the way Fundy shifts on his feet, tail twitching with restless energy that desperately needs a better outlet than trying to help keep a _revolution_ from crumbling in on itself. Mustering a smile to match Fundy's enthusiasm, he asks, "You wanna come with?"

 _"Yes,"_ Fundy all but begs, relief flooding his voice. "I swear, I'm going to tear out my fur if I have to stay inside this stupid camp another _minute."_

"Well, grab your things and meet me at the gate," Eret says with a chuckle. "I'll let Wilbur know I'm taking you with me."

It hurts, a little, seeing the way Fundy rolls his eyes at the mention of Wilbur's name. Eret refrains from commenting on it as Fundy darts back into the tent, and instead jogs over to the RV. The crisp tune of Mellohi washes over him as he opens the door and climbs inside, finding Wilbur surrounded by crates and chests, taking painstaking inventory of their remaining rations. Eret grimaces when Wilbur's head darts up, his eyes dark and glassy, no evidence of recent sleep to keep them alert and clear. _Manic_ isn't a good look on the leader of the revolution, but Wilbur quickly composes his expression into one of tempered focus.

"Eret. Hey," he greets, his voice sounding raw and scratchy. Eret wonders if he's paused to eat or drink in the last several hours.

"Hey, Wilbur," Eret says quietly. "I'm taking Fundy with me to check the traps."

He expects _some_ amount of resistance. Wilbur has always hesitated, whenever someone else offers to bring Fundy out on scouting runs or hunting trips - even convincing him to let Fundy take his turn at watching the wall has always meant a brief, stubborn back-and-forth. Eret has always been the one gently insisting that Wilbur let Fundy feel like he's being helpful, because he can see how stir-crazy the poor kid is, cooped up in the camp all the time. Sometimes Niki lends her voice, but most of the time it's Eret, and Wilbur always relents after a little mulish, fatherly reluctance.

This time, however, he just gives Eret a tired nod and a frazzled, half-cracked grin. "Okay, good, good - let's hope they actually caught something this time, yeah?"

Eret blinks. "...Yeah," he manages after a strained pause. "Let's hope."

Wilbur doesn't say anything else. Eret lingers in the doorway of the RV a moment longer, staring as Wilbur resumes unpacking one of the last chests, sifting through wrapped-up parcels of dried meat and canned vegetables. Something cold twists in Eret's stomach as he glances at the chests Wilbur has already gone through, the realization sinking in of just how little is left of the food they brought with them to the camp. He turns sharply, burying the feeling as he makes haste to the gate, finding Fundy rocking on his heels in anticipation. The crossbow strapped to his side hangs awkwardly, too large on too small a frame; Eret grits his teeth, and ignores it. He can't let Fundy leave the camp unarmed. Night falls too quickly now, and mobs spawn all too fast.

"Ready to put those big ears of yours to use?" he says with a grin, ruffling the fur atop Fundy's head. "I'm trusting you to watch my back out there."

"Don't you worry," Fundy brags as Eret leads him out the gate. "There's nothing out here that can sneak up on _me._ Not even _Dream."_

Oh, the headstrong bravery of young boys. Eret remembers when _he_ thought he was invincible, too.

It took a towering portal appearing out of _nowhere_ and a howling maelstrom and the first time he woke up after _dying_ to convince him he wasn't. He can't even remember _what_ killed him, though the scar just below his clavicle suggests to him it might've been a shot from a skeleton. All he remembers is feeling everything _hurt_ and then go numb, and then - _sensation,_ all flooding back at once, through every inch of his body. Senses returning piece by piece; touch first, as he scrabbled desperately for his surroundings, feeling dirt and moss underneath him. Sight next, blurry and unbalanced. Hearing returned slowly, pierced through with a horrid, wailing howl that scraped at the inside of his skull.

It took _days_ for his sense of smell to return. Longer still for taste. The whole time he felt like a corpse that had simply forgotten it was supposed to be dead. He might've even believed he had become a zombie, if it weren't for the constant, rapid flutter of his heart in his chest. Even now he distantly recalls stumbling to Niki's home, collapsing in front of her - he remembers her catching him, her hands coming back stained with blood from a wound on his body that wasn't open anymore.

They'd been young, still, but in that moment, they'd stopped being children.

(At least they got to _be_ children, once. Fundy never got that chance. The maelstrom always finds new cruelties to inflict, it seems.)

Eret knows he should try to temper Fundy's brashness, but he can't find it in himself to chastise the boy for his casual disregard of the threat Dream poses. It's a good thing, he thinks, that Fundy hasn't quite learned the bone-chilling fear Dream invokes in the adults. The only one of the boys who understands that is Tommy, though he tries so hard to hide it. Eret is fairly certain Tommy has _himself_ convinced with his own bravado, but every now and again he slips up. He slipped up after Wilbur's announcement; Eret caught him standing outside the boys' tent late that night, staring at the walls, sword clutched in a white-knuckled hand while Tubbo and Fundy slept.

He hates the idea of Fundy becoming like that. Tommy is as loud and boisterous as teenage boys come, but it hasn't escaped Eret's notice how he never makes sound when he walks at night, his footsteps silent, tension coiled in his lanky body like a rubber band poised to snap. Fundy still stumbles here and there as he trots at Eret's side, twigs snapping under his boots, his tail catching on the underbrush. Little careless sounds from a boy who still looks at these woods with eager curiosity instead of dread.

Fundy gets distracted easily, as they press onward into the trees. Each random imperfection in the flora or scuff on the ground snags his attention as he searches for signs of animals, the same way Wilbur has tried to teach him.

Eret always keeps one hand over the satchel at his side, axe and dagger and crossbow ignored for the time being. In one of the inner pockets of the bag is a rare, precious ender pearl, warm to the touch. If the wind should happen to stir while Eret and Fundy are out here - if the howl is louder than Mellohi's distant tune - and if something _else_ comes with it, Eret knows what will happen. Weapons won't do him any good, but so long as he keeps his nerve, he might be fast enough to shove that pearl into Fundy's hands and order him to throw it back toward the wall, before they're surrounded - before it's too late.

For now, though, the air is still. Cold enough to make Eret's lips go blue, but it's still, stagnant, _quiet._ Barely a breeze rustles the tops of the towering evergreens, raining down the occasional flurry of pine needles onto their heads. Eret holds in a sigh of relief he dares not exhale, not yet. The rebellion only has so much luck on its side, and he won't waste it by tempting fate, by lowering his guard even for a _second._

"Come on," he urges Fundy to keep pace at his side, "daylight's burning, kiddo." Too fast, too cold, the sky gray and dim.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, _dad,_ " Fundy retorts, tone dripping with sarcasm, but it makes Eret's throat tighten, guilt stirring in his chest. He's sure Fundy doesn't mean anything by it, and he's _so_ fucking relieved the boys still feel comfortable cracking jokes, but - he can't remember the last time he heard Fundy refer to his _actual_ father that way. It's just 'Wilbur', now, and the worst part is, Eret isn't even sure Wilbur has _noticed._

(He has to have just not noticed - too many distractions, too much stress. The alternative is not something Eret can accept.)

Fundy tails close behind Eret as he navigates the woods, the trails between the traps so familiar by now he could walk them blindfolded. Fundy sniffs at the air every now and again, his keen hybrid senses catching whiff of scents Eret can't even fathom. The most he catches notice of is the distant snapping of twigs, the rustle of leaves. Sometimes the distant, raspy croak of crows that refuse to abandon the woods. The rest of the time, the forest is clutched in an eerie near-silence, Mellohi almost inaudible at this distance. 

When they reach the first trap, it's been sprung, but there is nothing inside, and the bait is gone.

Eret grits his teeth, but doesn't let his dismay show on his face. Gesturing for Fundy to join him, he kneels down and guides Fundy's hands to the spring mechanism. "Here," he instructs, "'bout time you learned how to do this."

Fundy's tail twitches eagerly. Eret walks him slowly, precisely, through resetting the heavy iron trap. The boy struggles against the tension of the trigger mechanism, but together they make quick work of the process. Eret adds what bait he can spare to the trap and covers it with a thin layer of desiccated leaves, praying silently that they'll have better luck at the next one before he stands and pulls Fundy along with him.

He tries not to think about the way the wind picks up, seeming to mock them with distant laughter as it nips coldly at their heels.

* * *

The next trap is unsprung, bait still intact.

They move on.

* * *

Eret makes the mistake of letting Fundy walk ahead of him to the next trap, a simple snare in a dried-out riverbed. Regret coils in his gut the instant he sees Fundy freeze in place as he slides down the crumbling embankment, staring at the decaying fallen tree where the snare resides. A low whine leaves Fundy's throat as Eret jumps down beside him, gently nudging him away, hand firm on his shoulder.

"Just sit down, Fundy," he says calmly, his deep voice feeling ill-suited for the kind of reassurance he's trying to offer. "You don't have to look. I'll take care of it, okay?"

Fundy locks eyes with him. Dark and glossy to match the black lenses of Eret's sunglasses. There's another quiet whimper, but not from Fundy. The boy flinches, averting his gaze, trembling like a leaf.

"You can't," he whispers. "Please."

Eret grimaces. "Just sit down, okay? You can do that for me, right?"

Fundy crumbles, sinking in on himself as he drops to the ground, tail puffy and ears flat against his head. Eret feels sick to his stomach as he turns away from him, rounding on the snare, on the weakly thrashing creature whose legs are caught in the noose. He approaches slowly, the frantic animal staring at him with unblinking dark eyes, identical to the ones he can _feel_ staring at his back. Another set of whimpers sound off, and he isn't sure if they come from Fundy, or the unfortunate white fox trapped in the snare.

Eret crouches down slowly, retrieving a hunting knife from the sheathe on his thigh as his shadow falls over the squirming fox. He's certain the next sharp whine he hears is Fundy's voice.

Dark eyes below. Dark eyes behind.

(The wind stirs, laughing cruelly.)

The fox in the snare is large, healthy. The snare should've killed it; the cord is around the neck, but a paw is trapped as well, at a crooked angle, underneath the throat. It's all that's saved the animal from asphyxiation, prolonging the inevitable. Eret wishes so badly that the fox had been dead before they arrived; the decision now falls on his shoulders, sinking into his skull like the bared teeth of the fearful animal at his feet.

Eret thinks of Niki's tame fox, the one she raised from a tiny lost kit. He thinks of Fundy sitting behind him, ignoring his insistence to _look_ away. He thinks of the way the fox in the snare whines the same way Fundy does when he's frustrated, or when he's struggling out of a nightmare, his hackles raised, his eyes damp.

He thinks of Wilbur, the discs, the wall.

He thinks of winter.

 _"Eret,"_ Fundy all but begs, in a child's distraught voice.

He screws his eyes shut, pulse pounding in his skull, gripping the handle of his knife until his knuckles go white.

_What's it all for, anyway?_

The boys are all they have left. They're the only things worth protecting, and they haven't forgotten how to laugh yet.

Eret grits his teeth, and makes his choice.

(The choices will only get harder from here.)

A few careful cuts are all it takes, and it's over, and they move on.

* * *

"'Ey, look!" Tommy shouts, slapping Tubbo on the arm to get his attention. Tubbo nearly drops his axe, spinning away from the fallen tree they're dismantling for firewood to glare at Tommy. Before he can get out a retort, Tommy waves in the direction of two figures appearing out of the treeline. "Eret and fox boy are back!"

Tubbo almost smiles, but falters halfway through. Brow furrowing, he glances at Tommy and murmurs, "They... weren't gone that long, right?"

Tommy has already started moving to intercept their friends, but his pace slows at Tubbo's words. A frown tugs at his lips, but he offers a casual shrug as they jog over to meet up with Eret and Fundy. "Betcha Fundy just 'omesick," he drawls, following it up with a short laugh that rings painfully fake to Tubbo's ears. A cold feeling settles in the pit of his stomach as they wave down their friends; the feeling only worsens when Eret slows to meet them, but Fundy keeps going, ignoring them as he hurries on through the gate.

"Hey, big man," Tommy quips as Eret drifts over to meet them, expression unreadable. Tubbo lingers a half-step behind Tommy, gaze warily darting to the woods as a sharp chill descends over the clearing around the wall. "Find anything good out there?"

There's an edge to Tommy's voice. Something strained, insistent. Almost like he's pleading for good news - or an excuse to get loud and brash and _angry_ about what's been happening lately. He's been holding it in remarkably well ever since Wilbur's announcement, but he's been shivering more when he and Tubbo curl up in the cots together at night, and Tubbo _knows_ it isn't just because of the cold.

Eret's expression manages to darken, sunglasses casting a shadow over his face. "...No luck," he says flatly. "Traps were empty again."

"...Well, shit," Tommy mutters. 

"What's up with Fundy?" Tubbo cuts in worriedly. "Is he okay?"

It's impossible to miss the way Eret's jaw tightens - a stubborn thing the adults do, when they don't want to burden Tubbo and Tommy and Fundy with whatever dark things haunt them on the inside. Tubbo sees it mostly from Wilbur these days. Niki is mostly an open book, and he takes great comfort in her honesty. Eret is somewhere between them, a withdrawn enigma of a man who rarely shows the same worry and fear the others do, his true feelings always guarded behind those sunglasses.

"It's better if you ask him," Eret eventually says. "If he wants to tell you, that's up to him." He levels them both with an unmistakably stern look. "Don't pressure him if he doesn't want to talk about it."

Tommy rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, don't bother the angsty fox boy, I got it. Did you at least find any skeletons? Niki said she's running low on bonemeal."

Eret shakes his head, and Tubbo feels something shrivel up inside him. He chokes the feeling down, the sound of sharp inhale lost as the wind stirs, cracking against his cheek with freezing cold. He feels himself stepping closer to Tommy before he even consciously realizes how cold it's suddenly gotten; if there's one trait Tommy shares with his lost older brother, aside from a general propensity for antagonizing the enemy, it's the warmth his lanky frame has always radiated. It's the only thing that really makes Tommy feel _otherworldly_ -the heat that burns under his skin, like lava. It's the piece he carries with him, the proof of what he _is._ A badge he wears as proudly as Techno wore his tusks, and Tubbo wears the small, blunt horns curling from behind his temples.

(Their badges of honor, and their burdens.)

For once, Tommy doesn't snark at Tubbo about being clingy. They stand silently, glued to each other, staring Eret down as the uncomfortable weight of their diminishing prospects descends on all their shoulders. Eret is the one to break the standoff, flashing a smile. "So we've hit a dry spell," he quips, reaching out and patting them each on the shoulders, his confidence so unshaking it astound Tubbo. "Better luck next time and all that, yeah?"

Tommy snorts. "Yeah, jus' you wait 'til Tubbo and I go out hunting. Those mobs won't know what hit 'em. See, Eret, your problem is the sunglasses, you're going around all blind an' shit, no _wonder_ you can't find anything-"

Eret chuckles. "Right. As if you wouldn't scare off every animal within ten kilometers the second you open your mouth."

"Bitch, I'll have you know I'm a _master_ of stealth-"

Tubbo grins, despite himself. The bite of the cold wind lessens as Eret and Tommy bicker at each other, Eret helping them gather the firewood and bring it back into L'Manberg. So today didn't quite go as they'd hoped; there's tomorrow, still, and things will be better then. They still have time.

They've got time, they've got each other.

It'll be okay.

* * *

That night, when everyone gathers outside the greenhouse for dinner - a fresh loaf of pan-baked bread, with the last of the honey recovered from the beehives, and an extra helping of leftover beetroot stew for the boys - Eret wanders over to Fundy for the first time since they returned from their unsuccessful foraging trip. The boy sits on the threshold of the greenhouse, fingers buried in the soft fur of Niki's fox, curled up at his side and snoring quietly.

"Hey," Eret says quietly, sitting down on the dead grass beside Fundy. He offers up his slice of bread - burnt on the underside, despite Tubbo's best efforts. Somehow it feels like a peace offering. An apology for the choice he nearly made.

Fundy accepts the extra slice of bread a bit too quickly, wolfing it down with a hungry gleam in his eyes. The metabolism of a young boy does not mesh well with the metabolism of his vulpine nature; Eret discreetly sets down his half-eaten bowl of stew, as well. Fundy glances down and accepts it after a tenuous pause. As he cups the still-warm bowl in his hands, his own empty one discarded at his feet, he finally replies in a subdued tone, "Hey. Um. Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Eret says, stretching out his arms above his head. "Growing boys need their supper."

Fundy's quiet a long time. "Not what I meant," he murmurs.

Eret absently runs his thumb over the hilt of the knife strapped to his thigh. In the darkness, Fundy doesn't see the motion; with Mellohi playing, he can't hear the low, rebellious growl of hunger in Eret's stomach. Eret waits patiently for Fundy to eat, and find his words, struggling to make sense of a vulnerability the boy rarely feels comfortable displaying. It takes a little time, but eventually Fundy continues quietly, "I know we - I know we probably really could've used it, but-" He trails off, sighing. "Thanks."

"Mmm," Eret muses under his breath. "Probably for the best. Foxes probably taste too gamey, anyway. All fluff and bones."

Fundy doesn't respond, but his tail flicks back and forth with relief.

Eret smiles. They don't talk about it again for the rest of the night, but seeing Fundy happy - he knows the choice he made was worth it. He'd make it again, in a heartbeat - whatever it takes to keep the boys safe, to keep them happy, to keep them feeling like _children_ a little while longer. They deserve so much more, but if a little peace of mind is all Eret can give them right now, he'll gladly do it, and figure out the rest later. Tommy has his discs, and Tubbo has Tommy - Fundy has a shaky promise from a father who wants to give him the whole fucking world, but has no idea how to accomplish that.

If it comes back to bite him, so be it. He'll have more chances to provide what the whole of L'Manberg needs later; at least for tonight, Fundy's still smiling, and right now, that's more important than anything.

(When he checks on the boys in their tent late that night, Fundy sleeps soundly. The fire crackles, the wind is quiet, and the air doesn't feel quite so cold.)

* * *

A week later, the traps have still caught nothing.

A week later, the bonemeal stops working.

A week later, winter arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. I'm sure they'll all be fine.
> 
> -
> 
> Comments as always greatly appreciated! Feed me words and I shall reward!


	4. whisper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter arrives, and walls break down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angstybois time let's go

With the first heavy snowfalls of winter come more monsters; fiercer, harder to kill. Tommy relishes the challenge, aiming down the sight of his crossbow at spiders and creepers from up atop the icy wall of L'Manberg. It takes more hits to bring them down, and missing means they scatter, hiding like cowards in the trees. The wind mocks him each time a bolt flies wide, distant voices screaming - _cackling -_ before Mellohi rebuffs them.

"Yeah, fuck you too, dickhead!" he shouts down at a grotesque spider as it scuttles away into the dark, a bolt lodged in its thorax.

"Tommy," a voice sounds suddenly from behind him, startling him into nearly dropping his crossbow right over the side of the wall. "What have I told you about wasting bolts?"

With a scowl, Tommy rounds on his brother as Wilbur climbs up the rickety wooden ladder, his beanie and coat frosted with the gently falling snowflakes. Tommy opens his mouth to fire off a retort, half a dozen different curses primed and ready, but something holds his tongue. As Wilbur climbs into the flickering lanternlight to join Tommy on watch, it sinks in just how haggard his older brother looks. He's pretty damn sure Wilbur hasn't actually slept in over a week; his eyes have pretty much become exclusively dark circlesat this point, barely anything left behind of the blue they share.

It makes Tommy's stomach twist. The blue in their eyes is their strongest family resemblance. Phil had it, too, and so did Techno. The exact same shade in all of them. Now, though - well, Phil and Techno aren't _here,_ and Wilbur's eyes are a washed-out, shallow counterfeit of what they're supposed to be. 

Tommy quickly averts his gaze. "Not like we can't make more," he says mulishly. "I'm so fuckin' bored up here, Wil, I'm freezing my bits off-"

"Says the human furnace."

"Screw you, bitch-"

Rather unexpectedly, Wilbur's knuckles brush over the exposed nape of his neck. Tommy freezes rigidly in place - it's been months since Wilbur showed any kind of tactile affection. He's been so caught up in trying to keep L'Manberg going that they've barely had any time together as just _brothers,_ instead of brothers-in-arms. A shudder passes through him, and he doesn't shrug off Wilbur's touch as his older brother's hand drifts up to his head, running his fingers through his hair.

( _"Kid's got an off switch,"_ Techno said once. _"Who knew.")_

Unwittingly, Tommy lets his hand drift up his chest, toying with the emerald pendant tucked underneath his scarf.

He wishes he could just - give in, close his eyes, let Wilbur play with his hair for a little while - but there's a sour feeling coiling in his chest, an uncertainty he can't shake. Wilbur hasn't acted like this in months, so what's changed? _Something_ has to have changed. He knows Wilbur's tells by now, he knows by the way he's suddenly getting all clingy that _something_ has to be wrong. Wilbur doesn't just show affection on a whim, not anymore. Not since - not since it all fell apart.

"You trying to distract me or something?" he mutters suspiciously, tone coming out more bitter than he'd intended.

He hates the way Wilbur tenses up, hand going still against Tommy's scalp. The response comes with Wilbur's normal amount of casual sarcasm, but Tommy hears something brittle underneath the words. "Oh, believe me, I'm being extremely selfish," he quips. "As your leader, I think I deserve my fair share of the Tommy Innit Heat Reserve. Better use of all that energy than picking on spiders, anyway."

Aether above, Tommy wants so badly to believe him - but he knows his brother, he _knows_ him.

Last time he clung so tightly to Tommy, they'd been fresh in denial from losing their brother and father to the Hunters. They'd barely separated in those harrowing days, curled up in the same bed together with Tubbo, Tommy's fingers grabbing bundles of Wilbur's shirt as he tried not to cry. (Big men _don't_ cry.) Wilbur's hands had been constantly on Tommy's arm, his shoulder, his hair, as if Wilbur believed Tommy might _also_ disappear if he let go. He'd been the same with Tubbo, though not quite as desperately.

He isn't sure when they drifted apart again. Sometime after they left the old bunker behind - too risky to stay where the Hunters could find them - and sometime before they brought Niki and Eret into their ranks. At some point in those uncertain in-between months, something _changed,_ and now it's changing again, and Tommy feels a spike of cold dread pierce his core.

"...Wil," he says, either trying to reassure his brother, or looking for reassurance himself, "we're gonna be okay, yeah?"

(The traps haven't caught anything.)

(The bonemeal has almost run out.)

Wilbur - tall, lanky bastard he is - rests his chin atop Tommy's head. (Techno used to do it to him, too. All seven towering feet of their hybrid brother could envelop them both in a hug simultaneously, if he was in the right mood for it.) Tommy grits his teeth, feeling an urge to buck off Wilbur's embrace with protests of how he's not a fucking child anymore and doesn't need Wilbur to coddle him, but-

He lets it happen. He doesn't protest, doesn't complain, doesn't _argue_ for once in his life. He knows his brother, a little too well. So he knows - deep down, at least, even if he doesn't want to admit it - he _knows_ what it means when Wilbur holds him tightly, silently, and doesn't give him an answer.

* * *

The cracks in the foundation are subtle, but swift, to appear.

A day after the first heavy snowfall, in the evening, Wilbur makes his way to the greenhouse. His breath fogs in front of him, his toes and fingers numb, boots soaked through as he trudges through the dense-packed snow. The interior of the greenhouse isn't nearly as warm as it should be as he pushes the door open, finding Niki inside, hunched over her workbench with a mortal and pestle in her hands.

Wilbur expects her to look up when the door hinges creak, as she usually does.

This time, she doesn't.

He approaches carefully, clearing his throat, which has been raw for days. "Niki?"

She startles, almost knocking the mortar over. When she lifts her head, Wilbur cringes at the sight of her bangs falling loosely over her face in disarray, her lips blue from a cold she apparently hasn't noticed creeping in through the door. Her coat is off her shoulders, Wilbur realizes, and her eyes - blotchy. Has she been crying?

"Hey, Wil," she manages, in her quiet voice that Wilbur has long since learned to stop mistaking for _timid._

His brow furrows as he pulls off his scarf, draping it over her shoulders. She offers a faint smile at the gesture, her gaze drifting to the bench just behind and off to the side of her workspace, pressed up against the wall. Wilbur's gaze follows, and he finds Fundy curled up on the bench, Niki's coat covering him.

"He was helping me for hours," she murmurs. "Poor boy's exhausted."

Wilbur rests a hand on her shoulder. "He's not the only one, by the looks of it," he points out. His attention drifts to her hands and they're raw and red from tirelessly grinding the bones down to powder. Looking around, Wilbur realizes there are no bones left, just a jar of pale white dust, and what remains in Niki's mortar. The contents of the jar won't be enough for more than a few extra crops, given how the cold has crippled the bonemeal's effect. After that-

"You should get some sleep," Wilbur suggests, keeping his voice steady as his thoughts race frantically through his head.

Niki sniffs in as she nods, wiping her hand under her nose.

Her knuckles come away faintly bloody.

Wilbur's eyes widen. He prays it's just from the cold, from the low humidity, and not - something else. He doesn't say a word as Niki presses his scarf under her nose, staunching the trickle. Clothes never stay clean here, and at least this blood isn't from a worse wound. He waits patiently at her side until the bleeding stops, and she draws in a stronger breath, pouring the last of the bonemeal into the jar before she stands.

They lock eyes for a moment, and Wilbur sees his own worry mirrored in her tired gaze, her furrowed brow.

"You know," she says gently, "you should try taking your own advice."

Wilbur gives a short, humorless laugh. Niki offers him a feeble smile, giving his hand a squeeze before she departs. Wilbur lingers behind to snuff out the lantern on the table, and then he gathers his son in his arms, cradling him to his chest. Fundy doesn't wake, though his ears twitch in his sleep. He's so light that Wilbur barely has to exert himself at all to carry him out of the greenhouse and over to the boys' tent. (The cabins still aren't finished, the snow came too soon and there isn't any _fucking time.)_ Inside, Tommy and Tubbo lie wrapped under the heaviest blankets the revolution has; Wilbur tucks Fundy in right beside them.

When he exits the tent, he almost walks right into Eret's looming figure, standing statue-stiff just outside.

He halts abruptly in place. "Eret, why aren't you on watch??"

Eret crosses his arms over his chest, his expression hardening. "Wil, there's _nothing_ out there," he hisses under his breath, and Wilbur _knows_ he doesn't just mean monsters. "We were supposed to do better than this. They deserve _better_ than this."

Wilbur's lips curl down. "Well, there _isn't_ anything better than this right now," he snaps under his breath. "We can figure it out, we just - we just need to tough it out, okay?"

"For how long, Wilbur?"

"I don't know, okay! I'm working on it, I can't just magically make things better-" He cuts himself off before his voice can raise any higher, before his breathing can get any faster.

There's a tense beat, before Eret lets out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm finishing their cabin tomorrow," he states flatly. "It'd go a lot faster if you helped."

"I need to check traps tomorrow-"

"Let Tommy and Tubbo do it," Eret says, tone strangely insistent. "Let them _help,_ for fuck's sake. You pulled them into this, let them _do_ something about it."

Wilbur wants to scream _no,_ he can't just let his little brother - little _brothers,_ at this point - go out into those woods alone, but the protest dies before it reaches his lips, because - fuck, Eret's _right,_ and he hates it, he hates it so fucking much.

"...Fine," he concedes bitterly.

They part to their respective tents without another word, and Wilbur goes yet another night without sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time.
> 
> Fic is going on hiatus. Not sure when it'll come back.


End file.
